


Poirot vs. Alien vs. Predator

by AlynStrong



Category: Agatha Christie's Poirot (TV), Alien vs Predator (2004), Aliens vs Predators Series - Various Authors, Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-02-24 03:39:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13205082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlynStrong/pseuds/AlynStrong
Summary: Hercule Poirot meets his greatest challenge yet, as he faces criminals from very far away and a mystery as baffling as it is sickening.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like my story. Thank you.

The great man Hercules Poirot strode proudly down the England street in about the 1950s I suppose, with all shiny cars and smartly dressed women and sirs passing by. But Poirot kept looking straight ahead, hair slick and moustachio pointed and black like a blade, a small smile on his likeable face, because he had business to attend to. He was on his way through this historical city to meet his police friend, The Inspector, to talk about his new job.

He reached the stone steps outside his charming home in London I assume, and pranced up with his cane while the butler held open the door. Poirot charmed him instantly, but the butler of course did not get too familiar as it would not be allowed, but instead called for his master "Mr Inspector!" while the sweet detective waited inside near the door.

Police Inspector came quickly to meet his famous friend, a nice man but a bit rougher than Poirot and not as thorough a gentleman. Nevertheless Poirot was understanding and smiled a thin foreign smile, shaking his hand with his leather gloves. "Mon amis my Inspector friend, to what do I owe this pleasure?" he said, and the policeman showed him through to his living room for tea.

"So very good to see you Mr Poirot, I do appreciate you taking your time to help me with my problem" he said as they both sat in comfortable chairs in the nice old room which was in great condition for its age.

"Ne pas, Inspector, always my pleasure. Tell Poirot what he can do for you this time".

The Inspector grew serious as he got down to business. "Mr Poirot, I know that you are a master of crime and criminals of England and indeed your old town of Belgia, but I am worried that this new matter might be even beyond your grasp".

Poirot was surprised at this statement and a bit annoyed at the suggestion there was something he could not do since he was after all Hercules Poirot, but he didn't let his impeccable face show it, but instead kept stum and asked the cop to go on.

"I have seen many a thing", continued the worn-looking Inspector, "in my old England, but this takes the biscuit. Even more than the war did."

Poirot knew all about the war and thought this was bullshit, but drank his tea, wincing at the common taste that was bad to his gentle stomach. "Tell it to Poirot straight and without compromise, my dear Inspector. We are both men of the world."

The Inspector nodded gratefully and got down to it. 

"It is a damn funny thing but there is definitely an alien in this London. My own policemen saw it come down last night and wrote about it in their notebooks which they submitted at my desk this morning. I checked my records and it is definitely correct."

"An alien, mon amis?" verified Poirot.

"Yes Mr Hercules, a true alien" intoned the Chief gravely.

Poirot nodded slowly and severely, placing his cup of dreadful tea by his side. He raised a napkin and patted his beautiful mouth, then stood up and gently smoothed out his sweet purple trouser suit.

"So, you think Poirot is – how you say – a  _damn foreigner_?" he hissed.

The Inspector, horrified that he had been misunderstood, sprang up with arms raised in apology, but it was too late – Poirot hit him deep in the gut, then slammed him in the back with a gloved chop, sending the Chieftan sprawling into the tea table, exploding its contents across the shabby room.

"No Poirot, it's the truth" yelled the Polis, turning to face him – but this was his second mistake. Poirot belted him in the face and shoved him against the wall, shattering a nice picture, and screamed in Belgian at the poor policeman who could say nothing in response.

As the Inspector cowered on his own floor, Poirot calmed and stepped back, looking with some distaste at the mess of milk, shortbread and broken furniture left in his wake. He averted his eyes from the shaking policeman and took a deep breath.

"My apologies, mon frere, but I had to be sure. You understand, of course?" he stated in measured tones, his back turned to give the Inspector a chance to collect himself with some measure of dignity.

"Of course, Mr Poirot", croaked Inspector Tom, slowly rising, "I understand. This is an unusual case. You had to take special measures. But sir – you see now I am serious, and there is definitely an alien from another planet here?"

"Yes, Herr Inspector" said Poirot with a low voice and incredible seriousness, "Poirot knows the score. Now tell me, without further delay –  _where is the aliem_?"


	2. Chapter 2

The grand shiny car like a 20s radiator with wheels pulled up in front of the English country house. Poirot eloped from the vehicle gracefully and bid hello to the gardener, Alan McTavish, who was tending the blackened pit which was once some rose bushes.

"Lady Olfactory was right sick to see the mess of her flowers", the gardener whined. "I was sorry to tell her about this happening."

Poirot placed his dainty handkerchief over his mouth as he surveyed the charred shithole. The grass was burnt up real bad, and in the churned dirt he could make out a jumble of metal shards and indescribable meltings. The inspector padded over from the car and hung back, eyes on the black hole, scratching his head like a dumbass.

"Tell me monsieur", Poirot began, "did you see this happen? Describe to Poirot what you know."

"Certainly sir", grunted the base gardener. "I was pruning or some shit last night when a great rumbling and pounding came from the sky, and the next thing I saw was a blast from the ground like in the war. I was fair shocked and fell to my old knees. In the mud and dust a shape stood and swung around like a thin ape. It was more than my simple mind could hold."

Poirot nodded and extended a sympathetic gloved hand to the gardener's crude shoulder, as he had become quite distressed in the re-telling. Poirot tightened his grip and leaned in closely to the old ear, whispering "tell the Poirot what you know to me right now".

The gardener continued: "The black monkey did not see me but I saw it. It ran towards the house like a tumbling spider, but that was the last I understood. Later the police found me in the mud."

The old man shivered there on the lawn, as Poirot turned to see what Inspector Tom was saying to it. The Policeman looked sad, and gestured the Belgian genius to pray follow him.

"This was only the beginning", said weary Tom, "and you'll want to see where the body was found."

In the drawing room they met Lady Oligarch in her lovely dress, tearfully drinking gin from an old glass. Police Inspector gave Poirot the gory details of how Lord was torn up real bad in that there library, and holes were burned in the walls, and all of the nice vases smashed up like it was nothing. Lady Oblida hugged her mink stole as the memories burned at her. Poirot shook his head gravely during the whole thing and muttered 'mon dieu' at the state of the place, which had been knocked about very badly, it could not be denied.

"My fine Lady", he began, "Poirot expresses great sympathy for your loss in this most unearthly of circumstances." He advanced on the weeping figure, removing his fine hat and looking as charming and professional as a Belgian.

"Thank you Detective Hercules", she sadly voiced. "Please excuse my teary demeanour but my beloved husband was shredded by a nightmare."

Poirot indulgently dismissed her concerns. "Please Lady Oliphant, do not worry for this Poirot. I know the matters of the heart and the pain of the kill. Please," he gestured to the comfortable seating by the window for them to continue their conversation, sensitive as always to the well-being of the ladies, such a gentleman was he.

When they were seated and the pitiful butler had brought them more gin, he entreated the Fair Lady to tell what she saw. The Inspector hung in the back with no seat or gin for him.

"It was quite unlike anything in my experience", she sung, "a creature like a greased lizard with the talons of the worst crow. My husband was quite unprepared for its entry and attack, despite him being a military man of course. It winded him almost immediately."

"Please madame", broke in Poirot, "to tell me where the creature went after dispatching the Lord?"

"Certainly. It dove through that window over there" – indicating as she did the shattered hole in the side of the building.

Parrot tipped over his glass and stood up. "There it is", he said, "the next clue for Poirot is revealed, and this charade, madame, is kaput", kicking over the table for emphasis. The dressed-up dollybird gasped. "Inspector Tom, fetch the car and follow the black bastard!" he belched, storming from the room.


	3. Chapter 3

"Ach, mon stomach", Pinot winced, as the gleaming car rollicked through the English countryside like a black dolphin.

"Should I slow down, Detective Poirot?" asked the Inspector with mild worry.

"Non mon amis, the chase is above all, even my sickly gut". He gestured at the road with his gloved digits, bidding "please to watch for the breakages and monster paths". The inspector did what he was told, scanning like a dog.

Onward they trundled in their lovely old ride, which I guess was pretty slick at the time, or maybe just normal for a policeman, I don't know. Pernod was startled from his queasy misery by the exclamation of the hatted friend, 'up ahead look!'.

And look Poirot did, to see an arresting sight. A stretch of heinous destruction - a churned field, a burning tree, a shattered potting shed and a couple of charred corpses thrown about. What a mess.

They pulled their hot ride over and disembarked to pace and gape over the scene, Poirot putting a handkerchief to his stern face, the Inspector shaking his sorry head.

"Our quarry did a real number here" stated the Inspector, nudging a blackened cadaver with his foot.

"Quarry, pah!" spat Poirot, "quarries, sir! For you see this is where the party truly started, and our guests became 2."

The policeman blinked in surprise. Our great Belgian shook his head in silent disgust. "Oh my old man, what did they teach you at the English school? Open your eye." But before the staggered polis could reach for understanding, Poirot barked "with me!" and strutted for the potting shed, the other dogging slowly behind.

Within the ruined outbuilding they found a shattered fellow hunched into a surviving corner. The Inspector exclaimed in surprise, but Hercules shooshed him aside, eye on the prize. Kneeling before the craven sod, he whispered urgently "it is me, Poirot, and now tell me what you saw my old friend". 

The dirty invalid craned his neck at the pristine gentleman before him and huskily intoned "a great fight, a battle between two mysterious figures, and my family the victims on the side."

Poirot leaned in still closer, his mustache erect.

"Tell me who saw" he gasped thinly but assertively.

"A man, glistening like a beetle", the wretch whined. Poirot nodded impatiently.

"His adversary. Describe him."

"Knotted lank hair. A silver mask of great shine. Savage weapons."

Poirot drew a great deep breath as the information hit him like a drug. Eyes closed, he digested it like a sweet wine and straightened his proud back, his duty done. With great clarity he saw beyond the shack, across the field, past the burning tree, and on to what lay beyond, and knew where the path lead and what it meant.

Hercules made directly for the car. The Inspector gestured impotently behind him.

"But this man! This poor man and the bodies."

"Human wreckage. You will drive me to London's Grand Hotel for a slap-up grill."


	4. Chapter 4

The dining hall of The Grand London Hotel sprawled in all gold and opulence around our seated heroes, the dapper and relaxed Monsieur Poirot and his humble Inspector Tom, as they sat at their round clothed table. The slick waiters huddled and poured and presented, finally leaving the smiling Frenchman with his plate of thick meat and eggs. Carefully arranging his napkins, he hammered into the piled grub with dainty relish like a great king.

Old inspector meanwhile squirmed and puzzled his head over their surroundings, unaccustomed to such refinement, and also not sure why they were stopping for a feed at this juncture, as he expressed in words: "Monsieur Poirot, is this really the time for a beautiful meal, with such thugs on the loose?"

Poirot scoffed, and a lesser man would have spat sausage but Hercules was above it, and swung his greasy fork in a wide arc. "My sad Tom, this is the best time of all for such repast! Can you know none of what my Poirot has known?"

When he saw that the policeman really did not know, he could have shat right there and then, but kept it together through pure Belgian grit. He wiped a hint of sauce from his terse lips and formed a sick glare with his eyes.

"Have you not noticed the build and the path of our pursuit?", he crooned. "On the one side our great black ape, and on the other a challenger - one bent on the spreading kill, the other on an intimate throwdown. And the latter must chase the former as it seeks to create a great shitshow, as is its nature", he stated as a matter of fact, jabbing his meat tray.

The tired sergeant sighed "but how can we, I mean" but Poirot had no time for it.

"We need not chase no longer!", he barked, "for we are out ahead!", pointing his fork for emphasis at the sagging clown. "Our prey lags behind on foot, and we await their arrival, and where? My sweet fool, at the place that most expertly meets the needs of both monsters - the heart of this London for the chaotic creep, within which lies the great space our base warrior needs to swing his dick. Behold!" - flinging his dripping knife at the window - "The Old Theatre Royal, London's greatest dancehall, across the road from this fine cafe."

Inspector lolled his grey neck in wonder while the beautiful genius resumed his feed.

"And now, inspector, you see that the wait is for us the gain. And we will need our strength." Poirot chewed heavily on the pork and gristle, muttering "we will need the strength from the meat, oh yes", and in the background a slow swell of shouts and shrieks, and smoke appears, and sweating Poirot swallowing his sausages muttering "we will not need to wait long, no", taking now another forkful, and old Tom looks so tired and pale and lost.


	5. Chapter 5

Poirot, doubly refreshed, strode boldly from the meal centre like a leader of men, great purple overcoat spotlessly swinging in the wind, cane aloft and hat sweetly perched. And into what morass? But a chaos of humanity, as fine gents and ladies staggered and howled and smoke billowed from that old insitution the Grand London Theatre. 

But there was no hesitation on our detective's part, no, as he split the crowd with swipes and words, advancing on the great double doors and bellowing taut orders at shambling Tom: "Inspector, gather your polis and form a barricade around this here building at once. Not a man jack shall enter except for you and my body, do you hear me?"

Seeing the shock and daze in his eyes, Hercules grabbed Inspector by the lapel and pronounced "this is a matter of _great sensitivity_ my man, do you understand what I am telling you?", and the fading chump snapped up quick like and got his shit together, hustling his uniformed compadres into some kind of shape.

Free of this baggage, Poirot marched into the entrance hall of the building and swiftly chucked out all the whining plebs with harsh French and whips of his cane. "This is the real deal!" he screamed in the face of a crying woman. 

With the last of the dipshits ejected, Hercules collared his good pal into the hallway and took stock of the situation. Outside the building was secured by the normal cops. Inside, only our 2 heroes remained in the still and eerie space, but it was clear there was foul company nearby - from within the theatre room muffled whumps and whoops emanated and shook the very bones of men. Poirot stood the Inspector firm against the door and laid down the law.

"Mon frere this is the serious time, and you must follow my back so closely", he whispered, moustache firm to the end. "No sound and no running. We face this now."

Before the Inspector could even respond, Poirot opened the great theatre doors and hustled them both inside like secret mice.

The room was dark and fetid with exotic sweat and pulped furniture. They darted behind some nearby wreckage to hide and poke eyes about, seeking sense in the shadows. As their eyes adjusted to the weak glow of the low lights they beheld two indistinct figures on the stage aloft, whipping and shrieking at each other like bad brutes. There was their thin ape, buckled and desperate, screaming like a woman, while the masked hunter of stories ballooed deeply in response, spinning a spear like a damn savage.

The sight was almost too much for dear Tom, and Poirot sensed this and put a reassuring hand on his arm. 'Not yet, mes amis', he whispered oh so delicately, 'you must not retch'.

The rotten hunter suddenly dropped his stick and extended barbaric metal claws, running at the black beast to finish it via cruel melee. The cowed freak was at its end, and the masked thug tore its throat out with one swipe, then a backhand slice to separate the head entirely, spewing foul liquid across the old stage as it flew into the heavy curtain, its lame body stewing like a rank shitpile.

The silver shadow paused to relish his filthy kill, then padded over to the curtain to look for the head. "It is done", Tom gasped with great relief. 

"Oui Inspector", Poirot whispered in return, "one beast has fallen. But the fighting is not over. Please hold my coat and hat."


	6. Chapter 6

The Inspector stood ashen-faced like a true plum as the brave Belgian strode out into the littered aisle, rolling his sleeves and licking his lips. His gait grew in boldness from stride to strut, to naked swagger as he advanced on the stage. The filthy hunter was too busy picking at his kill to cotton to this development.

Tom tried to puzzle the Parrot's intentions but was locked down by bafflement and fear. He could only watch agape, and who can blame him really?

With a sudden violent lean and deep grunt, the sweet detective pitched his cane like a gentleman's javelin, and beheld it soar and bounce uselessly off the fleshy back of the dank savage.

The masked brute spun in a right rage. Tom moaned in horror. Poirot raised his arms and stretched his chest, eyeballing the threat and bellowing "that's right you damn chump!". His progress resumed, even more theatrical yet, every footstep placed like a giant, each breath a ragged groan, arms spread like a freak. Poirot's face bulged red, the mouth gibbering abominably.

The hunter stared. Tom retched. Poirot sprung up onto the stage like a dread gorilla.

His progress was slow but unyielding, his mania swelling. The great French hunk bobbed like a prize fighter, hairy arms as shiny as fresh hams. He beat at his own chest, made obscure gestures, choked out threats with the voice of an animal.

Now less than 6 feet from the metal shadow, the electric detective whispered terribly, almost sobbing, "I will teach you. I will teach you all about it now."

The ratty warrior shook in bamboozlement, and sagged for but a moment. Poirot was on it immediately.

In the blink of an eye, Poirot's entire sweating bulk propelled forward like a crouching bullet, his fist lodging deep into the rank gut of the hunter. It could not even squawk before the Belgian followed through with a stout uppercut, lifting the lanky shit off its feet and landing it flat hard and ugly on the old wood floor.

Tom had never seen such a cruel winding in his long life.

The slippery goon sprang up like a tarantula, just in time for Hercules to plant a double axehandle upon its kidney. The aborigine squealed in affront and sank to one knee. The tumbling Breton threw his weight again and, with astonishing brutality, landed a haymaker right smack dab on the shambler's heart, which is a really dangerous thing to do. And sure enough, it must have totally burst him, because the grimy hood buckled like a wet prawn and never moved or breathed again.

Poirot stood over the body and shook. Tom was hit hard by the scene, and in truth could not handle it - his vision blurred and greyed, and down into the pit of night he sank.

The Inspector came around to find Poirot shaking him to his sense, the great man now largely restored to recognition, hat returned to head and fine gloves covering his ruined hands. Only the merest trace of distress could be read in his professional eyes, and his moustache was absolutely impeccable, let me tell you.

"Inspector", he began, throat somewhat dry from his primal bellowing, "you will bury this mess beyond all eyes. A gas leak is to blame, je nais comprende?", helping the sorry policeman up and propping him on some garbage.

Confirming that the polis got the message, Poirot gave himself a final dust down and straightened back to his best. "Join me on the morrow for breakfast and talk, my old friend" he smiled, and bowled through the big double doors like it was no big deal at all, none of it, leaving Tom clutching and shivering in the dark with a job of work ahead of him.


	7. Chapter 7

The Inspector rolled up to the charming block of old English flats that Poirot lived in, that looks like great preserved history to us but was maybe only built that year, I'm not sure. Ascending the broad stairs past all tasteful ornaments and metal handrails, he arrived at the sturdy wooden door to that really stylish home, and was granted entry and shown to the drawing room.

And there sat our waistcoated Poirot in the morning sunshine, perched before his plate of salted eggs and chocolate, reading a broadsheet and chuckling to himself. "Good morning my inspector," he began chirpily, standing like a gentlemen, "may I offer you some of these fine eggs?"

Old Tom was still shattered from the previous day's activities and could hold no meal, so declined. Hercules bid him sit and poured him some coffee which he could not touch either, the poor sod.

"I see you are badly knackered my chum," smiled the Frenchman.

"That is correct Poirot", croaked Tom, "this adventure has really taken it out of me. It is not every day an English man must face a violent alien."

Poirot rocked, agog, and let out a sudden loud laugh, slapping his leg. A square of mouth chocolate landed on his table napkin.

"My man, surely you do not still believe the fairy story?", he incredulously joshed. But Tom matched him in sheer surprise.

"But after everything we saw! Surely, Poirot, you cannot deny the otherworldly nature of our experience!"

Poirot patiently shook his grand head and carefully folded his napkin. "Oh my old friend, I am again thrown by your slow cells. And now", he sighed, "I must commence to expound on my reasoning and lay bare the shitshow to your tired eyes". And with that, Poirot stood and stretched and began his slow pacing around his really very stylish home.

"You will recall", he commanded, "that our initial descriptions of the creature came from a base labourer and a mere woman, and so were of no worth. The only gentleman present was badly smashed apart. So to judge from the impact made on their soft minds and the furnishings, this must have been an impressive and powerful animal. But of what nature?"

"Our second dying witness gave us a crucial detail - not one but two characters, the second with knotted hair, a spear, a mask. In other words -", he paused for impact and to check the polisman's face for understanding, of which there was none, "- an African prince!"

Flat Tom was dimly staggered.

"Yes", Hercules continued, "for only an African would have such accoutrements, and only a member of their royal classes could afford such a fine and shining mask. And so now it is a matter of simple deduction that the beast must be the Great African Ape, and our Prince is in hot pursuit of the animal with the aim of curtailing its rampage, such is his sworn duty."

Tom gathered his words and begged an interruption: "But Poirot, how could such fellows arrive in this England?"

"You will recall the exploded apparatus at the grand house? I am no aviation chief, but I must assume a dirigible or helicopter."

Slack-jawed Tom, "But why would -"

Poirot laughed and waved his hand dismissively. "My sweet Inspector, I am a great criminal mind, but even the Poirot would not attempt a guess at the exotic cultural reasoning of the African. Perhaps a practical joke gone awry? Or a confused attempt at espionage? Who will _comprends pas_?"

Tom shrugged.

"The important thing", resumed the Belgian genius, "is we had our men down pat. It was clear the ape would seek the chaos of the populace, and our Prince would follow with a view to cut its bloody throat. And as I explained before, the likely venue was clear to my good mind."

Tom raised his hand again. "But why did you have to fight it yourself, Poirot? Why the violence and the secrecy?", his voice shaking now, recalling the horror.

"Indeed!" shouted great Hercules, gesticulating with his clean hands, "a most appropriate question Inspector! Such was the nature of the odd game we were dealt, that an unconventional solution was required. For my good policeman, as you must surely see, the arrest of an African nobleman would be cause for an international outrage. And you and I have seen what can happen when the world tilts to war - this, I as Poirot could not allow to risk happen. And so I knew", he said, growing in intensity, "I knew that there was only one way this could be dealt with."

"This is why I had your police secure the building and insisted we enter alone. The scandal must be lidded. And on top of that, another matter - the matter of honour and accountability". Poirot clenched his fists at this. "Bodies were left in the mud, and - even if arrested - the Royalty could not be held to account. But Poirot could hold them to account." 

Holding his fists now before his face, whispering to the Inspector, "Poirot would hold them to account with these. These two hands. Do you hear me, Inspector?", and old Tom nodded, and Poirot edged closer and more quiet now, hissing "there is nothing that can protect you from the fists of Poirot. There is no law that will protect you from the fists of Poirot, my god, I promise you that."

And with a clap of his hands and a broad Belgian smile, our Frenchman stepped back, his story told. "I trust all is clear my friend", he sung, "and now, how about those eggs?"


End file.
